


fire and brimstone

by anonymonypony



Series: fire and brimstone; heaven and hell [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 30 year old virgin Nicky, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Religious Content, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, bottom!Joe, cameos by Andy and Quynh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:42:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27060649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymonypony/pseuds/anonymonypony
Summary: Enemies to friends to lovers Joe and Nicky. The first half of this fic is quite gory and violent—born of the rage I feel researching the Crusades that it is basically the precursor to Western European colonization of the globe. The second half is of their love, featuring virgin!Nicolò and bottom!Yusuf. Bonus points if you spot exactly where Andy and Quynh make their cameos.MASSIVE TRIGGER WARNING for (monotheistic) religion. This is a deeply religious fic, engaging with both Christian and Islamic concepts of homosexuality between men. This fic also interweaves actual Catholic liturgy into the text within the aforementioned violent first half, so don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with that.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: fire and brimstone; heaven and hell [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016452
Comments: 26
Kudos: 120





	fire and brimstone

**Author's Note:**

> **Special credit to user Reyb18 for the Islamic scholarship. The fic has been updated from its first draft with wonderful improvements on the parts where Yusuf engages with his religion, and I am grateful for your patience and guidance.**
> 
> I humbly present yet another version of their origin story, and yet another version of Nicky’s Catholic guilt. I wrote this in a frenzy, without dipping my toes too deeply into fandom so as to keep the purity of concept I guess. But due to the similarity of source material you might be reading slightly different versions of the same thing over.
> 
> Thanks to the aforementioned Western European colonization I grew up in the Episcopalian religion despite being Asian. Neither European nor Middle Eastern history is mine, and there are differences in the Episocpal church upbringing vs the Catholic Church that makes my writing so un-erasably Anglo but I’m hoping it passes the bar. As such I take responsibility for any inaccuracies and kindly request you engage in good faith so I can make the necessary corrections should anything be problematic. I also owe a great debt to the Tumblr users who have written up helpful reference sheets for Joe’s background. These can be found in the fic afternotes.
> 
> Thank you for reading.

_But the same day that Lot went out of Sodom it rained fire and brimstone from heaven, and destroyed them all._

—Luke 17:29

  
  


The year is 1099, and Nicolò is on board the Fortuna, a state of the art sailing ship. The chaplain has fallen ill with dysentery, and the captain is seeking someone to pray for him. Should things take a turn for the worse, the captain indicates that this person might need to stand in for the chaplain.

No man has come forth to volunteer. One, a merchant, begins voicing his doubt on the venture. If the chaplain has been struck down, is this a sign from God that the journey is doomed? Another man accuses this merchant of caring more for his goods than for the welfare of anyone on board.

If there is no one else, then perhaps God has called me, Nicolò thinks. After all, he is named after Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, merchants and archers, and that’s exactly the composition of passengers on board this ship. Nicolò steps forward, offering himself in service. 

“ _Ave, maris stella, Dei mater alma…_ ” Nicolò leads in the singing of a hymn, entreating the rest to join. May the Blessed Virgin Mary offer her protections, and dispel the chaplain’s malady.

In the days that follow, the chaplain recovers, and the ship comes to anchor at the port of Jaffa. The town has been abandoned, and the merchants voice their dismay at not having goods to take back home in the name of commerce. They spend days awaiting the arrival of the crusader troops, so that they can pass on vital supplies.

The chaplain pulls Nicolò aside, to offer him extra blessings in gratitude for playing a part in his coming back to health. “I have a vision that you will go forth to Jerusalem, and by your sword may God’s will be done,” the chaplain tells him.

 _A sword?_ Nicolò thanks the chaplain for the sentiment, but inwardly questions the veracity of his vision. Nicolò is a crossbowman, having trained under the command of Guglielmo Embriaco. They are to march south towards Ashkelon, where they hope to take the port city in the name of their republic. The crusader troops arrive, and on their return journey, they are beset by an Egyptian contingent. Embriaco is forced to divert his troops to support the crusaders.

God’s will be done, they are on their way to Jerusalem. As the Pope commanded years before, to take the holy city back from the hands of infidels will give them the complete remission of their sins.

“What better time to sin, if our forgiveness is imminent?” A colleague remarks, a tad too optimistically.

“The outcome of the battle is not certain,” Nicolò tries to remind the group. Such circular reasoning could only be the work of the Devil. “Show some restraint or risk incurring God’s wrath.”

***  
  


Like most humans, there is a ledger of sins Nicolò has been accumulating since childhood. Mostly, they could be ascribed to improper questioning, stopping short of the worse infraction of heresy by the mere fact of his youth. His family sent him into a monastery to quell the habit, and by the grace of God, Nicolò received an education that nourished his mind and spirit.

There are unreconciled items still hanging on in Nicolò’s ledger, chiefly, whether it is a sin to tell the truth when the truth could be twisted into condemnation. In his monastic life, Nicolò favored his time in the library, where he spent his days copying manuscripts. Guided by Prior Tommaso, a kind, gentle elder who encouraged open inquiry, Nicolò was exposed to both religious and secular texts, and came to appreciate how the hand of God is revealed by the beauty in this world.

In a territorial skirmish, the county the monastery was located in changed hands, and a new abbott was installed alongside the new nobles that took over. The new abbott was possessed of a zeal and fervour that led him to effect sweeping changes in the monastery, with the result that Prior Tommaso was implicated in a scandal and excommunicated.

The loss of his mentor led Nicolò to voluntarily leave the monastery, returning to the world as a layperson. His older brother, long fascinated by the machinery of war, suggested that Nicolò take up arms, in order that he might access the blueprints of the latest technology. At the time, Nicolò did not feel suited to being a man of war, but the early training period revealed preternatural talents to the extent that Nicolò commits to this career until a greater purpose is to emerge in his life.

***

Life is bitter in the siege camp. The crusader troops are gaunt, parched, and desperate from three years on the road. The desert sun beats down mercilessly, and all the wells are poisoned, save one. The sole accessible well brings them in range of arrows from the city’s defensive walls, made plain by the surrounding carcasses of dead animals and dead humans. 

In Jaffa, the Genovese ships are blockaded by the Egyptians, and the crew travels to join the siege. Due to the lack of supplies, Nicolò joins expeditions to return to Jaffa, to take the abandoned ships apart and repurpose the lumber for the siege. A miracle happens when Tancred of Hauteville discovers a cave full of lumber, and they set about constructing siege towers, battering rams and catapults. The siege towers are rolled into place on the 10th of July, and on the night of the 13th, they launch an assault that continues all day into the 14th.

As a crossbowman, Nicolò operates in a team of three. There is one to carry the pavise, a large shield for cover, and one to help him reload the bow, which effectively doubles the firing rate. The crossbow is a new form of weaponry and there aren’t many of them around, but it is one of few weapons with enough force to pierce directly through a shield. In addition, the crossbow team gets to operate at a distance that keeps them safe from short range assault. They’re effective—and deadly.

Morale is flagging by the morning of the 15th, but a breakthrough arrives around noon, at the hour of Christ’s death, and the first of the crusader troops enter the city of Jerusalem. The breakthrough revives the troops’ spirits, and laces the air with a miraculous sense of destiny. 

Nicolò receives orders to enter Jerusalem, and as they enter through the Gate of the Column, opened from within by victorious knights, a bishop’s voice rings out behind them—cleanse the Holy City of the infidels that have held it for so long. Let their blood wash through the streets—this be a sacrifice pleasing to the Lord.

In the ensuing skirmish Nicolò discards his crossbow. It is too unwieldy, too slow to reload, entirely unsuited for close range combat. He picks up a sword from a fallen soldier, may he rest in peace, and swings it about, restless with emotion. There is something approaching a rapture that consumes the Christian troops, and many are yelling, stabbing, hacking with a supernatural fervor. Anything that moves is cut down, and the cries of the fallen only fuels the ecstasy.

It is only when Nicolò is met with resistance that he falls out of this stupor. There is a band of warriors, kicking up a dust storm, riding on horses and clad in chain mail. They wield one-handed swords with a curved blade, and their skill is such that Nicolò finds himself surrounded, alongside a handful of footsoldiers. 

Heart pumping so hard that Nicolò can hear it in his ears, he takes stock of his surroundings. Rivers of blood trickle down the uneven stones of the streets. In the distance, a lone woman cries over a limp, lifeless body. She has no arms. The lifeless body looks small. She could be crying over her dead child.

One of the infidel horsemen holds a disembodied head aloft. “You will pay for the blood you have spilled,” he spits out, and tosses the head into the band of footsoldiers.

_...the blood you have spilled._

All around him, the bodies are piling up. Crusading soldiers whoop and howl as they hack their way through anonymous bodies, bodies not clad in armor but in everyday clothes. Civilians. Women. Children. _Is this the kind of sacrifice pleasing to God?_

The horsemen charge headlong into the circle. Nicolò feels like his head is spinning, and his body is growing weak. Is it the onset of delayed fatigue? Or the guilt come to bear on his heart. Now, faced with his enemy, his sword falters. These deaths would be justified—but the deaths before?

In the thick of the melee, Nicolò begins to lose focus. He swings, but he misses. He ducks, but there is no blow. The horses are struck down and their riders are thrown off. The horses bray and the humans shout.

And then—

—there is a stab right through his heart. Nicolò’s mouth falls open in shock, but hardly a sound comes out as he falls onto his knees and onto the ground. The last image he sees, before he closes his eyes, is of his attacker—a warrior of an impressive stature, wielding the unfamiliar curved blade—one of the infidels.

With one heaving breath Nicolò swings his sword with all he’s got, and cuts a large gash into the infidel’s thigh. This fells the infidel, and with his one last breath Nicolò hurls his sword to pierce the infidel’s body.

***

Nicolò wakes up, in a pool of blood. The midday sun beats down on him and he has never felt more parched. Was it all a dream? He recalls having received a fatal blow, and yet he has not been called to St Peter’s gate. All around him lie motionless bodies, in various stages of dismemberment. Blood still disgorges from the wounds of these freshly slain bodies.

One of these bodies begins to stir. Alarmed, Nicolò feels around him for the nearest tool, and he finds a battle axe with a handle that is slick to the touch. _More blood._

The rousing infidel flexes one hand, fingers fluttering. Assured that his sword is still in hand, he tightens his grip around it, knuckles turning white.

In a split second the infidel leaps to his feet and lunges at Nicolò, but Nicolò is prepared. He deflects the blow with the battle axe and the bloodied damp wooden handle splits and shatters. Now provoked, Nicolò picks up the iron head of the battle axe and slams it into the hollow of the infidel’s neck. At the same time, this close proximity means he suffers yet another blow, the infidel’s curved blade goring into his stomach. The infidel twists his blade, and then withdraws it in an excruciating moment, and Nicolò watches as his guts spill from the gash.

***

_I should be dead_ , Nicolò realizes, and yet he wakes into the exact same scene of his death. The infidel lays before him, blood spurting forth vigorously from the jugular wound, and yet, before his very eyes, the wound begins to close on itself. Nicolò looks down at his own stomach, where the sharp pain from before has dulled, and is shocked to find that the injury appears merely skin deep now.

The infidel stirs, once more, and their eyes meet, full of hatred and fury.

_What work of the devil is this?_

The unkillable man, and the undying man. In this manner they battle, over and over, testing the limits of their reality. There is no one around them now, all is quiet. Back from the brink for an uncountable number of times, Nicolò starts to wonder if he’s in some form of the afterlife. Maybe for his sins he is not in heaven, maybe he is in some form of purgatory, and maybe he has to overcome this one obstacle to enter the gates of heaven.

_When will this end?_

A bell begins to toll.

In the distance, a low chant winds its way through the air. _Holy, Holy, Holy Lord God of hosts. Heaven and earth are full of your glory._

A look of fear befalls the infidel’s face. All his comrades are fallen, and the Christians have taken over the city.

Standing up, the infidel lets his sword fall to the floor. He reaches an unblemished hand out to Nicolò, offering to help him up.

_For the Lord your God is a merciful God…_

Nicolò takes the hand of his enemy, and seals the unspoken truce. The infidel picks up his sword once more, turns on his heels and flees, his figure disappearing into the shadows. All around them is the inescapable stench of death, festering in the sweltering heat. Blood pools and swirls around their feet with increasing volume, and the walls are splattered with entrails.

_Lord, have mercy._

_Christ, have mercy._

_Lord, have mercy._

***

Evening falls and they are instructed to set the corpses on fire. The corpses are disemboweled, because rumor has it that the Muslims have swallowed their gold in their escape. Around them, soldiers kick open the doors to houses and break windows to plunder and pillage. The booty is tossed into a pile but Nicolò is certain that each soldier has kept to himself smaller items of value, despite orders from above. Some survivors, quaking and quivering, are pulled from their hiding places and summarily executed, lifeless bodies tossed into the waiting pile to be burnt.

The blood, the violence, the gore, the greed—it overwhelms and nauseates Nicolò and he throws up without warning at the foot of a pillar. He has not eaten in two days, and all he throws up are bile and stinky fluids. Nicolò is gasping for air, throat burning from the bite of stomach acid, and he spies a door, barely hanging on its hinges, swaying slowly with a creaking sound. He crawls through this doorway, into an abandoned house, desperately seeking for a vessel of water. Carved into the wall is the figure of an open palm, with a Hebrew inscription in the center. The house is a dud, and Nicolò moves on to the next. This house, too, has an ornament of an open palm, hanging on the window—but this has an inscription in Arabic. There is a clay vessel, one-tenths full of water, and Nicolò pours every last drop of it down his throat. It is barely enough to quench his thirst, and so he moves on, from house to house. All the houses are empty, and all the houses have been looted, whether they be Jewish, Christian or Muslim. In one of the houses, there is a prayer corner with an icon of Jesus, and as Nicolò searches the house for water he feels as if the eyes of Jesus are following him, laying judgement on him.

A cross has been placed atop of the Dome of the Rock, and Nicolò makes his way towards it. He soon encounters colleagues and fellow crusaders who ask him to join in their merry feast of victory. 

“Nicolò the Virgin,” one of them greets, with the nickname they foisted on him, thrusting a cup of wine into his hands. “If only we had a woman for you tonight, but we killed them all.”

Laughter rings hollow in Nicolò’s ears as someone else presses the cup to his lips. The wine is bitter and he feels thirstier than before he drank it. The soldiers break into a bawdy song and it is more than he can tolerate. Nicolò begs to be let off early to rest.

Rest does not find Nicolò, however. He sleeps in fits and starts, the violence of the day playing over and over in his mind. He can’t tell if he’s awake or if he’s dreaming, the visions have all blended into one. In his dreams, he hears a voice— _I am the angel of vengeance, no longer will you oppress these people_. There is another voice, and this one sounds more distinctly like a woman’s, but they are dressed as men, fearsome warriors from a faraway time. Are these the angels of the end times, come to visit him? The angels are wise, and people journey from far to consult them. The angels resolve conflicts and mete out justice. Violence is served to the aggressors, but the meek are spared. One of the angels turns their face towards him, lifting the veil obscuring their face.

And then—

—there is an explosion of light. It feels like there is a hand, pressing onto his very spirit. Tongues of flame, bearing no heat, flicker around him. Nicolò begins to shake and cry, at once humbled, reminded of his sheer insignificance. What is he, to dare to set foot in this holy city of God, to claim this land for his people? To take God’s name in vain for the slaughter of innocent people in their homes? The angels transport Nicolò to a vision in the clear desert night. The people of Jerusalem have been scattered, and the ones who escaped are huddled, shivering, in flimsy tents. Hungry, thirsty, fearful—children press their faces into their mothers’ bosoms for comfort. The handful of refugees appoint a watchman, and in the crackling glow of the campfire the watchman’s face is cast into relief—it is the warrior Nicolò failed to kill in the heat of the afternoon.

“Nicolò! Nicolò!”

There is a slap on his face. Nicolò is startled out of his vision. 

“You were foaming at the mouth,” a colleague says. “We thought you were going to die.”

 _I’m alive_ , Nicolò thinks, _but should I be?_ Around him, soldiers enter and exit the hall they have repurposed into sleeping barracks. There is joyous chatter, and the sound of metal clinking as some other soldiers sort the booty. Nicolò’s pulse starts to race and his head begins to spin. He is certain now, that he cannot carry on amongst these soldiers.

As the night wears on, Nicolò begins to plot his escape. The euphoria of victory starts to wear off amongst the troops and fatigue finally sets in. More and more soldiers decide to call it a night, sleeping in beds of hay on the floor. There are lone stragglers here and there, some drunkards, and Nicolò seizes on their cover to make his escape, swaying side to side in an exaggerated fashion as he stumbles out of the hall. In the darkened streets, he slips into an alley, and begins ransacking abandoned houses for supplies once more. Some food, some water, bags to store them in for the road.

From higher ground, Nicolò discovers that not all the city gates are guarded, and he slips out, unnoticed, scarcely believing how easy it is to desert. Of course, there might be a price on his head for this crime.

***

It takes days, but the dreams of the refugee camp are getting sharper. Nicolò is convinced that the visions are a message from God, and nightly he prays for the Holy Spirit to guide his feet. In his dreams, Nicolò sees the Muslim warrior, who hunts for food and offers it first to the women and children, eating only when everyone else has eaten. He sees this warrior offer his cloak to an elderly man who is shivering from the cold. Nicolò has a gnawing sense that there must be some reason he could not kill this man, and though he cannot fathom why, he figures that meeting him again will shed some light.

As if on cue, Nicolò is stopped in his tracks by the glinting blade of a curved sword, held aloft by none other than the man he is seeking for. Nicolò drops his bags and raises his hand in surrender.

“I have food and water. Take it with you to your camp. Give it to those who need it,” Nicolò says, in broken and halting Arabic—a credit to his librarian years in the monastery.

The warrior does not soften his threatening glare. “How did you track me down? How do I know this is not a trap?”

“I saw you in a dream. God gave me visions of you. I want to know what they mean.”

The warrior’s gaze begins to soften, and he lowers his sword. “I saw you in my dreams too...Nicolò the Virgin, they call you?”

“Um,” Nicolò sputters, questioning what parts of his life were revealed in the warrior’s dream of him. “Nicolò di Genova, actually.”

“Genova…” the warrior muses. “I’ve been there. Nice place. Just on a stopover though.” He seems to catch Nicolò’s quizzical expression, and explains himself. “I come from a merchant family. We’ve moved around many times in our life.”

Nicolò nods slowly, taking his time to process the words. The merchant-warrior switches from Arabic to Latin, and repeats himself.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Nicolò replies in an unnaturally stilted manner, unsure of how to conduct himself now that they’ve apparently moved on from being adversaries. “May I ask...how do I address you?”

“Yusuf,” the merchant-warrior says hesitantly. “Just Yusuf.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m not disclosing more details. Don’t want you tracking my family.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Yusuf looks at Nicolò like he can’t quite believe him. Nicolò begins to feel a little self-conscious, and foolish. He doesn’t really have a plan beyond “find Yusuf”, and now that’s done…

“Can I join you in your camp?”

“Suuuure,” the word rolls out hesitantly from Yusuf’s lips. “We’re headed to the town of Ashkelon. From there we shall part ways.”

***

The road to Ashkelon will take them another four days. On the journey, Nicolò learns that Yusuf is not a warrior by choice, having been called to the battle of Jerusalem only out of necessity, as one of the few able-bodied men with horse riding skills. Nicolò learns that Yusuf much prefers a life of quiet contemplation and learning. Nicolò learns that due to his faith, Yusuf doesn’t perceive of Jews and Christians as the enemy, but brothers in the Abrahamic tradition. Nicolò gets confirmation, from what he suspected ransacking the abandoned houses, that Jews, Christians and Muslims lived peacefully side by side before the invasion. The small refugee camp they lead is a similar mixture of faiths, and the grief of displacement and losing their home of many years hangs heavy on Nicolò’s heart.

At night, he and Yusuf take turns keeping watch. When Nicolò sleeps, he no longer dreams of Yusuf, but the angels of vengeance still haunt him. He brings this up to Yusuf one day, who reveals that he dreams of the same figures. Nicolò thinks it must be a sign from heaven, so he prays and prays that the reason will reveal itself to him.

Nicolò tells Yusuf that he did not expect to meet such a kindred spirit. They have discussions on why they cannot die despite suffering such mortal wounds. Musing on the hadiths, Yusuf concludes that they have not died yet because God has not desired it. To regain consciousness after each blow, it reminds Yusuf of the prayer for the waking, which he shares with Nicolò:

_ Praise is to Allah Who gives us life after He has caused us to die and to Him is the return. _

To Yusuf, each time they wake after being wounded is a sign of God’s forgiveness, and they should honor this gift by making amends for their sins. Nicolò apologizes for the repeated attempts to kill Yusuf, and Yusuf forgives him, in turn asking for Nicolò’s forgiveness for the same.

“Do you think this means we can die now?”

“Perhaps, but to test this will require another act of sin.”

They decide that it is best to leave it to God’s will, the day of their eventual death. In the meantime, Nicolò is glad to have someone with whom he can discuss the theological implications of being unable to die.

***

Askhelon is a coastal city with a port, and Nicolò soon learns that this is familiar to both Yusuf and him. To breathe the salty Mediterranean air revives something deep within Nicolò, and once more, the world seems to open up with opportunities.

Having reached the city, Yusuf hands each refugee a small sack of coins and sends them on their way. It’s not that Nicolò means to eavesdrop, but from what he hears, it sounds like Yusuf’s family name gets a person very good credit standing. Not having any money himself, and having been advised to conceal his Frankish identity, doubly so as a deserter, Nicolò tags along Yusuf like a stray kitten seeking a home.

Yusuf suggests that Nicolò board a ship to find his way back to Genova, and in a matter of minutes Yusuf follows up by procuring a log of incoming and outgoing vessels. It turns out that there is a boat going to Antioch, departing in a couple of days, and Yusuf suggests that Nicolò should try and get on board.

If this boat leaves in a day, Nicolò ventures that he could stay with Yusuf until departure time.

“I think you like talking to me,” Nicolò offers, hoping to persuade Yusuf. Perhaps Nicolò is moved to opportunism on realizing the material wealth of his newfound friend, hoping to milk whatever comforts he can get out of it. However, it is not a falsehood to say that in the past four days they have engaged in deep and spiritual conversations, conversations that challenged the intellect and nourished Nicolò’s soul, so much so that the harsh desert trek barely registers in Nicolò’s mind.

“I should know by now not to expect manners from a Frank,” Yusuf grouses, but his large brown eyes are warm and crinkling at the corners with a smile.

While Yusuf seeks room and board at the inn, Nicolò drifts off to the nearby souk, relishing in the abundance and bustle of civilization. There is a stall selling fresh orange juice. Giving into temptation, Nicolò buys a portion on credit, in the name of al-Kaysani, which the stallholder accepts without question. In the distance, he sees Yusuf scanning the aisles of the souk, and Nicolò decides to buy a second portion of orange juice, beckoning Yusuf to come over.

“Why thank you, this is exactly what I needed in this weather,” Yusuf says, taking the cup from Nicolò.

“Thank yourself—I bought it in your name,” Nicolò replies, breaking into a coy smile. He had noted Yusuf’s family name from when Yusuf accessed banking services to give each of the refugees some footing in the city.

“Oh, I could kill you,” Yusuf grumbles through gritted teeth, nearly smashing the cup. The stallholder eyes them with alarm, for these cups are to be returned.

“I might not die,” Nicolò mutters under his breath, and they break into laughter. 

The stallholder shakes her head disapprovingly at the both of them, but what does it matter? In the past week they’ve been through so much death and hell on earth that they can allow themselves a precious moment of levity.

***

Yusuf is skeptical when Nicolò declares that he knows what to do at a bathhouse. 

“Of course I have bathed before—I have taken several baths in my lifetime.”

“Several?” Yusuf asks, stubbornly unable to retract his disbelief.

“At the monastery, we were required to have four baths a year! Of course, I took a little more than that, off the record—there is nothing like the feeling of being clean!”

Yusuf emits a string of sounds that Nicolò assumes are curse words.

“So, if I handed you this scraper and this bar of soap, you know what to do?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to leave you to it. You get undressed in this chamber, and you wash yourself in the next one.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yusuf gestures with his hand, waving Nicolò impatiently along.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you going to wash up too? We’ve been in the desert for days.”

“I will, I mean—” Yusuf lets out a heavy sigh. “Oh well. Since I’m here. I’ll go buy a set of toiletries—don’t wait for me.”

Nicolò nods, eyes trailing Yusuf until he leaves the room, and then he begins to undress himself. They are in a public bath, and when he steps into the hot chamber, there are a few other men sitting around, some scrubbing themselves, some chatting.

The bathroom is not quite what Nicolò is used to—at the monastery, they had wooden bathtubs they filled with heated water, and Nicolò did enjoy sneaking a light tome to the bathroom to read while he soaked. Here, it seems the men scoop water from a sink to splash on themselves, so Nicolò tries clumsily to watch and learn while hoping it’s not too obvious that he’s watching. The soaps here are different too—they come in hard, clear oblongs, scented with fragrant oils. Admittedly, Nicolò had earlier taken too long to choose a soap from the stall outside the bathhouse, so excited was he by all the new and exotic smells.

A figure enters the bathroom, wooden clogs clacking on the tiled floor, and Nicolò soon realizes that it’s Yusuf. Facing the wall, Yusuf splashes on himself a few bowls of water that run in shimmering rivulets down his body and in this moment it dawns on Nicolò that Yusuf has an impressive build and nicely-defined musculature. He doesn’t catch that he is transfixed on the sight of Yusuf lathering himself, until an old man nearby clicks his tongue in a soft warning. Nicolò realizes in shame that he should avert his gaze and allow Yusuf modesty.

***

Night falls and they return to the inn after a meal, where it turns out that Yusuf has booked separate lodgings. They part, and in the privacy of his own room, Nicolò lays down on the softest bed he’s slept on in months. To add to the luxury, there is a feather pillow just for his head.

In his sleep he begins to dream of Yusuf again. Though they have only known each other for less than a week, it doesn’t feel that way—it seems they have built a depth of understanding quickly surpassing any relationship that Nicolò has had in his life. In his dreams, he sees Yusuf’s childhood, growing up in Tunis, moving to Persia, a love for art, a gift for languages. Yusuf is gentle to everyone he meets, with those shining, warm eyes and the kind smile. In his dreams, Nicolò wants to touch the smile, and it fills him with such intense longing he lurches violently awake into the darkened guestroom, where a single oil lamp flickers in the corner. Nicolò is alone, and he realizes for the first time how lonely his whole life has been. From the age of nine he was cloistered in a monastery where most people were older than him. At the age of twenty five he lost his closest mentor. Without aim in life, he drifted into a peripatetic life as a crossbowman, sailing across seas and taking the side of whomever paid them well enough in battles.

Though the bed is soft, all comfort seems to have slipped away. Unable to sleep, Nicolò decides to take a walk in the inn courtyard. It is a moonless night, and when his eyes adjust the stars emerge in their full glory, twinkling with an awe-inspiring, humbling greatness.

“Can’t sleep?” A voice carries across the courtyard, and Nicolò turns to face its source. 

“No. And you?”

“Me neither.”

In the stillness of the night, words die in the throat before they reach the lips, and the air is heavy with the unspoken. Perhaps Nicolò is simply giving space to contemplate, or perhaps he has no way of uttering how he can’t sleep because he constantly dreams of Yusuf.

Yusuf is staring at the night sky, and when Nicolò cranes his neck to follow Yusuf’s gaze, a couple of shooting stars fall across the sky.

“Do you know of Ptolemy?” Yusuf breaks the silence.

“Yes, why?”

“In recent years there has been scholarship disputing the Earth’s centrality in the universe.”

Nicolò gasps. “That would be heresy.”

“Your heresies are not mine. If God is in the heavens, and we are on Earth, it is not too much to say that God should be in the center and the Earth should revolve around Him, than to presume the heavens move around the earth.”

“You sound unnervingly convincing. What proof do you have?”

“It’s not me. There are calculations for it. I can send you the books. Though, I’m not sure if there are Latin translations.”

“How will I receive these books?” Nicolò replies with a skeptical laugh. Nicolò has no fixed address for the foreseeable future. He is charmed by the idea but it is best to dismiss it early. 

“I can set up a courier box for you where my family has warehouses. It could be a way to keep in touch.”

“It’s nice that you want to keep in touch with me.”

Yusuf smiles, wan and enigmatic. “The fasting month begins the day you leave, but before then, would you care to accompany me for some wine?”

***

Conversation flows as smoothly as wine from the jar. Yusuf pours with a generous hand, and he regales Nicolò with colorful stories from mercantile life—already in his room Yusuf has gathered samples of goods to sell on—luxurious fabrics he urges Nicolò to touch, lacquered and enameled cases of such fine handiwork, beautifully carved combs and mirrors.

Nicolò, on his part, is happy to indulge Yusuf by oohing and aahing at each object he is shown—used to a life of restraint and simplicity, the opulence of these luxury goods are a novel and tactile experience that Nicolò enjoys.

Nicolò can’t explain the way he feels when Yusuf makes a joke about having a taste for the finer things in life, or the way their eyes meet like the punchline to the joke.

“Nicolò, I must confess you were in my dreams and I couldn’t sleep.” 

_No._ “What did you see of me?” Nicolò asks hesitantly.

“I didn’t see you. I saw, from your eyes, the way you look at me.”

Nicolò freezes. Shame courses through his veins and he turns his face to avoid Yusuf’s gaze. He only has Yusuf’s words to go by, and yet, Nicolò has no doubt that he has been exposed.

“I am sorry. It is dishonorable. We will not see each other again, soon. Please forgive me and remember me well.”

‘No, no,” Yusuf’s voice is soft. Nicolò hears the sound of Yusuf moving closer, and then he feels Yusuf’s fingertips on his chin, gently lifting his head so that they are gazing at each other once more. “I mean to say, I have done it before. You can have me if you want, tonight.”

“I—I-,” Nicolò stutters, his heart sinking from the sheer weight of his guilt and lust. “When did you—why?”

“It’s not uncommon. In my youth there were many who pursued me. I’ve done it to smooth business deals. I have been both the lover and the beloved. It’s not a big deal to me.”

“I...don’t know anything,” Nicolò confesses obliquely, desire boiling over into frustration. “If you remember my nickname—”

“Right,” Yusuf says, suppressing a chuckle. “I can teach you. Let me know if you’re uncomfortable at any point and we can stop.”

“How do we start?”

“We can start with a kiss, which I reserve only for those I genuinely like. And when I kiss you, you can untie my sash and we can disrobe.”

Nicolò presses his lips to Yusuf’s lips, and it is only then that he closes his eyes. Yusuf’s lips are soft like rose petals, but in the corner of the curve of his lips there is a rough patch of dried skin, a reminder of their desert trek.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf gasps breathlessly. “You kiss a little too hard.”

“Sorry.”

“Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s a little too much. Right now it’s a little too much.”

Nicolò tries again, as if he’s taking little sips of Yusuf’s mouth. _This is good,_ Yusuf assures him, and then, _you can go harder now_. All Nicolò wants to do is drink in all of Yusuf at once, and it is maddening that with each kiss the feeling only gets more intense, as if there’s always more of Yusuf that he cannot reach.

Blood rushes between his legs and on his stiffening cock he can feel Yusuf’s growing erection too. Yusuf reaches a hand downward to lightly stroke Nicolò’s length, and Nicolò groans, knees buckling, every nerve lit with the fire of a thousand suns. A whimper escapes from his lips, and with quiet desperation he pushes Yusuf up against the wall, panting, gasping, rutting into Yusuf, who curls his fingers around Nicolò’s hand and leads them towards the bed.

Yusuf hands Nicolò a bottle of jasmine scented oil, instructing Nicolò to lubricate liberally. As Nicolò coats his engorged dick Yusuf lays before him, knees and legs spread apart, so vulnerable and exposed it breaks Nicolò with how much desire he could have for a human person, a person as indubitably masculine as himself. Yusuf instructs Nicolò to enter slowly, and Nicolò does so obediently, guiding his oil-slicked cock with one hand inside of Yusuf. Yusuf feels so hot, so tight and inviting around him that Nicolò loses control and slides deeper into Yusuf with a moan, only to be answered with a warning growl.

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò gasps, fighting with every inch of his willpower to curb his haste. “Did that hurt?”

“It’s okay now. You can move,” Yusuf encourages softly. 

Nicolò lifts a hand, gently wiping the beads of sweat from Yusuf’s forehead with his thumb. Yusuf tilts his head to face Nicolò with a smile so tender it melts Nicolò from within. Nicolò withdraws a little, then pushes in slowly with a deep thrust that makes Yusuf arch his back and grasp at Nicolò’s neck, finding a grip with an accidental tug of hair that only sends a thrill down Nicolò’s spine.

Moving his hips rhythmically, it surprises Nicolò the ease at which they moved from bloodlust to lust. Less than a week ago they were at each other’s throats—they might even have been wrapped around each other like this, driven by a primal urge to kill the other before they are killed. Then, they might have been rolling around, slamming each other into the ground, skulls cracking and blood trickling. Now, Nicolò has a hand wrapped around Yusuf’s head, protection from slamming into the wall with each advancing thrust. It is no less physical, and no less messy, but here, on a soft bed in the amber glow of lamplight, the intimacy feels edifying.

Nicolò comes, for the first time in his life, inside of a person, spilled seed draining him of all energy and he collapses, spent, into a deep slumber. 

***  
  


Morning arrives and Nicolò is woken by the melodious chant that fills the city air, the call to prayer. Yusuf has woken up too, and with a pause for the prayer for waking up, he rolls out of bed to get dressed. He tells Nicolò that he will go to the mosque for the dawn prayer. 

Nicolò nods and settles back into bed, thinking about how Yusuf was once chosen to be a muezzin for his rich, velvety voice. This he learned from Yusuf over dinner last night, after Yusuf’s sunset prayer. As if a sign of destiny, in the visions that visited him before he saw Yusuf in the courtyard, Nicolò heard it for himself. Maybe he’s biased, but Nicolò thinks that more people will be moved to pray at the mosque if they heard Yusuf’s voice calling.

At some point Yusuf must have returned from the mosque and gone back to sleep, for the next time Nicolò wakes up it is in the glare of the bright morning sun, bed burning with the heat of another body. Nicolò eases the covers off, seeking relief.

His beloved lies, asleep and serene, bathed in the otherworldly glow of the dreamlands. Nicolò wonders what it means, that he was given a new chance at life, and for him to be squandering it like this, naked and entwined in another man’s embrace. Nicolò pulls the covers from Yusuf’s supine body, in order to better appreciate the sleeping form. Yusuf stirs, and Nicolò whispers a morning greeting at him, twisting the gorgeous curls of Yusuf’s hair with one finger.

Tracing the outline of Yusuf’s body, love and desire stir within Nicolò, an intoxicating mix that compels him to press his lips to Yusuf’s. If only their souls could be enjoined in this way, but now mortal flesh and blood stand as a barrier to this union. Nicolò wants to drink in all of Yusuf, and in his mind an illicit thought begins to form—can he pleasure Yusuf with his mouth? He gets permission from Yusuf and soon Nicolò finds himself on his knees, as if bent in prayer, except that this is an act of idolatry, the worship of another man’s phallus. Like taking from the communion cup Nicolò drinks in Yusuf’s body, which Yusuf has given over to him.

Flush with a post-orgasmic glow, Yusuf traces the outline of Nicolò’s jaw, and is moved to recite poetry.  
  


_I die of love for you, but keep this secret:_

_The tie that binds us is an unbreakable rope._

_How much time did your creation take, O angel?_

_So what! All I want is to sing your praises._

“It’s lovely. Who is it by?” Nicolò asks.

“Abu Nuwas, who remains controversial to this day.”

Nicolò opens up his own history to Yusuf, the guilt that long plagues his heart. Of the monks in the monastery, because he could read Latin, Nicolò was called to the seminary to be ordained. With Prior Tommaso as his mentor, no topic was off limits. Prior Tommaso was of the opinion that all things come from God, and could thus be reconciled to God. In one private session, Nicolò had dared to ask about the love between men.

“Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.”

Prior Tommaso was of the view that love is not the issue, for scripture entreats that God’s love is made complete in the act of loving one another. It is the sexual act that is forbidden, and this is no more forbidden than the act of adultery or sexual relations between unmarried people.

Prior Tommaso was also quick to clarify that sins against God should be judged by God alone, and that those who have been ordained into the Holy Orders should provide without judgment, a guiding hand in living a godly life.

Thus, Nicolò has sinned, but this sin could be repented for, while he is still alive and there are good deeds that can be done in the world. Prior Tommaso, however, was accused by the incoming abbott for espousing heresies. In the investigation opened into Prior Tommaso, Nicolò was asked to affirm if Prior Tommaso permitted ungodly love between men. Nicolò tried to explain that Prior Tommaso said that unconsummated love is not against scripture, but the new abbott took it as sufficient evidence of heresy and duly excommunicated his mentor. Stifled by the fraught and condemnatory atmosphere, void of the open discussion that Prior Tommaso fostered, Nicolò chose to leave the monastery, bearing guilt he is still trying to atone for.

Yusuf listens intently, and in turn he shares the interpretations of Ibn Hazm, the leading Islamic thinker of contemporary times, known for his jurisprudence. Ibn Hazm is likewise of the opinion that “he who loves, and controls himself, and so dies, the same is a martyr.” Ibn Hazm even takes a more heterodox view that homosexual acts not qualifying as sodomy should warrant more lenient punishments. However, for the sin of sodomy Ibn Hazm nevertheless cites the Imam Malik’s opinion that both parties should be stoned. Enforcement, on the other hand, has largely been a touch-and-go affair depending on the caliph.

There is no escaping the fact that Nicolò quite enjoys sinning with Yusuf. If there is any sin for which Nicolò would gladly die and die again, it might be this one. 

***

“Reporting for crew duty, Joseph of Genova.”

In the distance, Yusuf shoots him a confused look, having overheard. Nicolò replies with an impish smile. He’s not going to use his own name, not least until he’s sure there isn’t a price on his head for desertion.

The boatswain hands him a small sack of cash, a fraction of the agreed-upon wages, the remainder of which would be paid to him on arrival at the destination. Nicolò is given time to load his belongings and procure necessities, and Nicolò takes this opportunity to say a final goodbye to Yusuf.

“This should be enough to pay you back for the orange juice,” Nicolò says, handing over some coins to Yusuf.

“No, no, consider the debt cancelled,” Yusuf demurs. “It was hardly anything. The stay at the inn though...”

“I’ll pay you back, for sure!” Nicolò promises earnestly, eyes widening.

“Consider that cancelled too.”

“No! Come on, I’ll pay you back over a year, I’ll even pay interest—”

“It is forbidden for me to charge interest,” Yusuf interrupts, thoroughly offended.

“Sorry,” Nicolò says, genuinely apologetic. “I was just hoping there would be something substantial to tie us together. We part too soon.”

“Really? I was thinking it is just as well that you should leave me before Ramadan,” Yusuf muses teasingly, but his gaze is wistful.

Nicolò goes to purchase some bread, and Yusuf slips him a small book of poetry as a parting gift.

They hug, and they kiss on the cheeks.

“I’ll remember you,” Nicolò tells Yusuf, struggling not to break into sobs. “Worldly but not jaded, knowledgeable but not cynical—Yusuf al-Kaysani, I am grateful to have made your acquaintance.”

“Nicolò di Genova, if we meet again it shall be by God’s will, and I will take comfort that it is enough hope to live on.”

“I’m Joseph now,” Nicolò corrects, with the slightest sniff.

Yusuf fixes a glare at him, and dismisses it with a sigh. They let go of each other, and as Nicolò walks to the departing ship, his legs feel like lead and he can’t keep from turning his head back, over and over, like Lot’s wife looking back on Sodom, heart crumbling like a pillar of salt.

***

Nicolò joins the crew of a small Byzantine trading ship bound for Antioch, where he is paid a pittance for scrubbing the deck. Nicolò tries to argue that he should be paid more for his archery skills, which can defend the boat in case of pirates. The boatswain declines, making only vague indications he will discuss this further in the event of an actual attack. The work is hard and each night Nicolò collapses into dreamless sleep, so thoroughly worn out by the day’s labor.

The boat arrives in Antioch with nary a setback. Antioch, under Latin Christian control for over a year now, teems with the chatter of familiar languages. In a tavern, Nicolò hears rumors of a planned attack by the so-called Kingdom of Jerusalem on Ashkelon. His mind instantly draws to Yusuf—and that night, Nicolò, frantic with worry, prays for the intercession of the Virgin Mary for Yusuf’s protection. Desperate, he prays also to the angels of vengeance that once appeared to him. Could they save Yusuf, should he come to harm? Why has Yusuf faded from his dreams?

In the ensuing days, Nicolò anxiously returns to the tavern each evening for news. There is a battle with the Egyptian forces outside of Askhelon. The crusader forces claim a resounding victory, but they are unable to penetrate the city. Infighting follows, between Raymond of Toulouse and Godfrey of Bouillon, and the news gradually peters out.

It troubles Nicolò that he seems to have stopped dreaming of Yusuf, which in turn keeps him from proper rest at night. Eventually, in a mid-afternoon nap at sea, he has a flash of Yusuf scrambling to pay for safe passage at a port, and that’s all he gets. He dreams, inexplicably, more frequently of the angels of vengeance, who seem to be setting up a school in a verdant hilly countryside. They sing and dance in foreign tongues, in harvest rituals that now appear disturbingly pagan to Nicolò, and he begins to doubt the reliability of these visions.

***

Grand Genovese galleys turn up in the port of Antioch, and through them Nicolò finds employment and a ride home. The ships first begin to transport goods and spices, in response to a growing mania within the continent for fine luxury goods from the Near East, brought on by the success of the crusaders in capturing Jerusalem. With passing time, these ships begin to carry humans as cargo, slave labor for the expansion of Latin Christian territory, a fact that horrifies Nicolò into taking action.

At Messina, Nicolò is caught freeing the slaves from a Genovese ship, and he is sentenced to execution for theft of the Republic’s property. As he is taken to the brig, Nicolò attempts to appeal to the religious conscience of his captors, revealing that he was an ordained priest in the Holy Roman Church and that the Lord will judge them for not showing mercy. His captors merely laugh at him, believing him to be a madman.

At the dawn of the next morning, Nicolò is marched to the noose, set up on the ship deck, for death by hanging. The rope is tightened around his neck, and a trapdoor is opened. Nicolò can feel the bones in his neck break, and he blacks out for a moment, but sure enough, he comes back to life. It is enough to convince him once and for all that the Lord has a purpose for him, that he should bear such a special gift. Nicolò tries to convince the guards that no matter how hard they tug the rope he will not die.

Feeling ignored, and to cope with the agony of being dangled on a string by his neck, Nicolò begins to pray aloud for the forgiveness of his executioners. This stirs something amongst the guards, and one of them begins to blabber that Nicolò did say he was a priest, and another guard nervously begins to suggest that they should stab Nicolò to death before anything else happens.

Of course, Nicolò once more fails to die, and the guards work themselves into a frenzy. Some accuse Nicolò of being possessed by the Devil and some fall to their knees begging for forgiveness, Nicolò’s innocence proven by his inability to die. In the chaos, the rope breaks and Nicolò falls to the deck. He picks up an abandoned sword, pulling himself to his feet. 

“Let me walk out of here,” he states, putting forth an entirely reasonable request, and then decides he should add a mild threat for emphasis. “Or I will send you to an early judgement before God.”

***

Once more, Nicolò is a vagrant in a port town, seeking gainful employment. He takes up a job as a longshoreman, and one day he notices crates marked with a familiar seal. He endeavors to be the one to load these crates to their assigned ship, and when he gets on the ship he attempts to negotiate a position amongst the crew.

“Look, don’t talk to me,” one of the shiphands grouses. “Talk to my boss. If you can get a hold of him—good luck with that, he’s a real busy man.”

Nicolò is transferred from person to person in an unbelievable web of administrative bureaucracy, but just at that moment, he sees a man, surrounded by an entourage, boarding the ship. This man is dressed simply, without adornment, but what adornment does he need when his face shines with such kind eyes?

The man catches his gaze. The polite, diplomatic smile disappears from his lips, which part in disbelief. His warm brown eyes shimmer with a coat of tears, mirrored in Nicolò’s own eyes.

_Yusuf._

  
  
  


-FIN-

**Author's Note:**

> Andy and Quynh are in Vietnam!! I’m completely obsessed with the idea that the old guards dream of each other when they’re apart and it stops only when they’re together. But I like to think these “visions” come and go inconsistently, so there’s absolutely nothing they can do about it sometimes but wait for the next one to get more clues. Also, if there is a sequel to this fic, I would love love love to write about Joe and Nicky’s first encounter with the very polytheistic, very pagan Andy and Quynh. Now what does THAT do for their lifelong monotheistic worldview? Cry laughter emoji face.
> 
> A final word of acknowledgement for my cat, who is named Niccolò after Machiavelli and who made writing this fic EXTREMELY WEIRD bc idk do you ever want to be writing sex scenes of a character with the same name as your cat while your cat prances all over your keyboard...
> 
> An abbreviated bibliography:
> 
> https://starrystarryknit.tumblr.com/post/632022408007712768/why-was-i-put-on-this-earth-just-to-suffer-every
> 
> https://lucyclairedelune.tumblr.com/post/630861970874220544/some-fun-facts-for-the-old-guardkaysanova-1-the
> 
> https://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/bath/hd_bath.htm
> 
> https://crusadespod.com/about/
> 
> https://www.academia.edu/26245981/Same_sex_love_in_the_world_of_Islam_familiarizing_Abu_Nuwas_and_wine_poetry
> 
> http://digitalcommons.unl.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1060&context=englishfacpubs


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